Fate tromluí Part 1 - Homunculus (Hiatus)
by Eurydice II of Macedon
Summary: 70 years ago, the Holy Grail vanished. The Three families faded away. Now, in a new time, with new stakes, many faces new and old. Stay nights, hollow ataraxias, prototypes, apocryphas, and strange fakes-the World is changing and here are they who will decide its final shape. Caught up in the middle are those that may or may not be related to the current events.
1. Prologue

**A / N:** This is a version of another idea I did in the past, sharing content with newer ones that I've since scraped. The world this story takes place is a timeline removed from all the others and connected to them at the same time. Somewhat like Grand Order, it's essentially Fate/strange fake with Fate/apocrypha's rules and general framework though it borrows a bit from everything.

* * *

 **Prologue**

Still in a daze, the king looked down at the weak, fragile body of the boy who'd been her Master, curled into a ball and muttering to himself, having exceeded the limit of what the mind could endure. All that remained of her former Master were those words he repeated over again and again and again. The same words she didn't wish to hear any longer. Her golden sword came down, severing his spine and ending his life. A mercy she had no right to carry out. Beside him, the one responsible for everything, sat wounded, clutching the wound that would've ended hers, as well, blood running down. The king raised her golden sword for the second time, but, as much as she wanted to, couldn't, and lowered it back down. She turned away to the large, ominous, and gaping crimson ringed portal in the sky above both their heads—the Holy Grail she so desired.

Nobody could blame her for it.

Only, she saw it for what it truly was now, and her heart was heavy with sorrow, deceived and blinded by her pride.

But, nobody could blame her for it.

There were no words.

 _—This path… I don't believe it's the wrong one—_

Standing on this lonely battlefield, crimson shades pooling at her feet, this was the final outcome of her pride, her wish, and the devastation it wrought as she went from it to the slumbering city around them.

Yes, nobody could blame her for it.

 _—Oh, my dear little sister, how I await the day you crumble and fall and open those perfect eyes to truth—_

Taking up her sword for the third time, the king left to go find a place to sow her sorrows.

Because nobody could blame her for it.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Months later.

High up in the mountains of China, two heroes were locked in a struggle of life and death. One, wielded a sword. The other, a bow. They went from range to range, peak to peak, at a speed impossible to follow with the naked eye alone. Thunderous were their clashes, demolishing their chosen battleground, until the mountains were reduced to canyons, and those canyons into chasms very deep, very dark, unable to be seen, even by those with keenest of eyes. At a stalemate, the two heroes stood facing each other and, over the roaring winds, the hero with the bow spoke to her opponent.

"Why are you holding back, Saber? Am I not a worthy enough foe for you to still conceal your blade?" she proclaimed, pointing the tip of her bow toward them. Bright, crimson flames coiling around its strings, kept burning by Archer's anger alone, her eyes fiery and the horns protruding from her forehead giving away her demonic nature, she anxiously waited for her opponent to answer.

Unmoving, Saber answered clearly and calmly. "No, Archer," she said, sheathing her sword in one smooth, crisp motion and shaking her head. "I never wished to engage you in the first place. My goal is to find and eliminate Caster, nothing more and nothing less."

"Are you saying you never took this fight seriously? You were mocking me, Saber?!" Archer snarled, but, Saber was already gone; leaving to continue her pursuit of Caster.

Lowering her eyes to their battlefield, the fire in Archer's eyes smoldered to embers, her horns shrunk back down to stubs. She grit her teeth in humiliation as another insignificant scratch on the latter's blade, gathering what lingered of her pride as she left to reunite with her Master.

Having watched their battle unfold and come together and unfold again to its rather anticlimactic conclusion from a safe distance away, predicting its outcome before either even drew their weapons, Lancer was awoken from her nap by the sound of her Master whining in her ear. He was famished, huddled around her legs. Stretching stiff muscles, she picked something from that same ear, then hopped to her feet and pulled a piece of cooked, salted meat from her cloak. He snatched it, chewing happily, then he sat there, tongue out and tail wagging, satisfied. Patting his head, Lancer wondered if she should catch up to Saber and tell her where Caster had run off to. Her Master barked, and she nodded in agreement. Right. Yes. Of course, what was she thinking... Caster was their hunt, and nobody else's.

And this was where the fun began.

The start of another Holy Grail War.

—§•δ•§—

Miles and an ocean removed from the World's events at large in an undisclosed city near Tokyo, Japan, Médée Veilleux gave the signal for her team to halt, looking up the weathered steps of the city's local temple at the gate that stood atop. Behind them, the city lay dormant, quiet and relaxed, almost as it were in a momentary state of hibernation till morning; its residents unknowing of the battle that had been waged right beneath their noses for the past two weeks. Of which, its finale, was right in front of theirs. Only, to her, it was all a waste of time. She should be out hunting, not investigating baseless claims. Especially one as trifling a matter as this.

— _After your recent failure, this is the chance we've been waiting for. Don't disappoint me again_ —

She could never understand what went through her mentor's head to make her so... obstinate, but, what she thought didn't matter. Even if what she thought was that this was just another wild goose chase—another ruse to let the trail go cold again. For, her mentor, hellbent on the idea that an Ancestor was pulling the strings behind, well, anything even remotely having to do with these far eastern rituals, had let Lord El-Melloi II's obsession get the better of her.

Feeling the faint presence of magecraft the closer she got toward the gate, of all the things he could have gotten her involved with, it were these backwater debacles. The Vice Director was so obsessed, in fact, that the team sent in addition to herself was comprised of members from the Brigade. Ten of the Vice Director's own, hand-picked elite.

Continuing on her way to the temple, she alone would have been enough, but this, this was excessive—and that was only counting the team traveling with her. Others were busy scouring the city high and low for any possible signs of Apostle activity. The Vice Director had dedicated a great deal of her personal resources into this farce, and it raised only one question: who among the higher mysteries of the World had irritated her enough?

… _Ortenrosse._

If it even was Ortenrosse.

Médée sighed, partially out of disgust at that fool of a Lord, but, mainly because of the afterimages detailing the battles fought at this very spot she saw as she went along. They came in flashes, faster than any normal human eye could follow. They were even fast for a magus, but, _her_ eyes could see everything clearly. Nonetheless, she would have to decipher them at a later date as she finally came to the temple, the energy of something twisted beyond. Hopefully something significant so she get this over with quickly and go back to what really mattered or otherwise she'd never hear the end of it.

Telling her team to lay low, she went forward alone, following the dark whisperings behind the temple where there was now only death. From the smell, someone had also emptied their bowels.

As she continued on with more questions than answers, her mentor rarely, if ever, acted upon her "gut feelings", and while she could certainly think of a few who would have interest in a ritual like this, none of those were Ortenrosse. The Vice Director was being made a fool of, too blinded in her hatred to even see it.

Eventually, she came across hidden steps leading up to a cave, which she entered.

It led into a vast cavern of raging red sand.

Quickly scanning the area, nothing else caught her eye besides some crumbled remains resembling a deflated embryo.

Handing it over to her team back at the temple, she checked in with rest who were scattered about the city. They were thoroughly clearing each portion of the city. Each successful sweep was given in sparse detail. Only two were really worth seeing for herself; first, it was reported that they found a house where a family had been murdered, the bodies fed upon by what could only be a Dead Apostle. Second, a strange bounded field masked the entrance to the sewer lines that ran underneath the bridge which connected the north and south sides of the city.

So, standing by the railing of the winding two-lane road that curved around the mountainside further down, gazing down at the slumbering city below, Médée arranged for her team to collect whatever samples they could, then scorch the area and leave no traces behind.

—§•δ•§—

Arriving at the first location, Médée approached the magus who was watching over the house in case anyone happened to chance upon it.

"What did you find?"

"See for yourself."

Stepping over the body of a man lying face down in his own blood, the magus led her inside, where it became apparent that—to her chagrin—the Vice Director's gut feeling wasn't wrong.

"There's no mistaking it…"

In the living room, on the couch, sat the drained and shriveled husk of a woman, fingers still clutching the remote to the television, her neck ripped into and what little od flowing through her veins sucked out along with her death thralls.

"This is the work of an Apostle," he stated.

Médée sighed for the second time. This was exactly what she didn't need. Turning to the magus, seeing a streak of blood which ran from the hallway to the beginning of the living room, she couldn't just pass this off as a robbery gone wrong.

"Is there anything else I should be aware of?" she asked, looking at the sole, fluffy, oversized jacket hanging on the coat rack.

"Yes. This way," he said.

Following him to a child's room, it was dark except for a tabletop lamp. Beside the lamp was a stuffed animal. She picked it up. She asked of the child's whereabouts.

"Vanished."

Even though this was a very recent feeding.

"It might be saving the child for later," she surmised. "Do what's necessary, and then contact the local church. I'm heading over to the second location."

Stepping back out into the cold night air, she hoped whatever awaited her at the bridge wouldn't be anything more troublesome than this.

—§•δ•§—

And now feeling along the tunnel wall of the sewer line, thinking of what the second magus said of the bounded field, her sigh turned into a groan.

Similar in likeness to that of a Territorial Field, the last thing she wanted was to confirm her mentor's suspicions, but, going deeper into the gloom, Médée definitely felt that familiar weight on her shoulders, but, it was faint and felt nothing like any of the Fields she'd encountered on their outings. Therefore, she'd no reason to believe it to be the real thing and wanted to turn back, leave it to the magus outside, but kept going anyway. Was it actually the cleverly disguised work of Ortenrosse, or the amateurish mess of a budding Ancestor yet to earn their place within the higher ranks of their kin?

… She truly didn't care.

Thus, after a time, when the concrete became slick and slimy, she pulled her hand away and snapped her fingers. Making a makeshift torch out of a tiny flame, the wall was covered in that same black sludge as back at the temple. Watching it burn—she was just about done with this whole sordid affair; it was like tar, and she followed the trail of it further into the tunnel, blue melting black, illuminating the dark.

Attracted by the light, first grunts and groans not her own, then drawn closer by the smell of fresh flesh, the undead slowly, painstakingly approached. Ugly, shabbling mockeries of what they'd once been. Ghouls, victims of an Apostle, risen again, lumbering towards her with lolling tongues and bloodstained teeth. Their cold hands grasped for her, skin hanging loose from their bones.

Destroying the first one that got too close, where there was the Dead, so too were their masters not far behind…

But, turning the last of them to ash, letting its headless body fall inanimate at her feet, Médée scattered the charred bits and pieces, a hollow crunch, once hardened bone and cartilage crushed beneath her heel, while it wasn't _his_ work—clearly, glancing around at the dozen or more around her in smoldering heaps—at least their being here proved it: the existence of a regular Dead Apostle.

Significantly weaker, and stupider, than their more superior counterparts—which "significantly" was a gross underestimate of the gap between the two—it was probably a magus who, too far out of their element, wound up even more pathetic than they were in life.

Whatever the case, the Apostle using these undead as its playthings would've no doubt already killed many more to satiate its hunger, their soulless husks bound to follow until a new master came along and took over the position. She had to find it, lest it—and it would, given the time—take over the whole city. After all, she knew how tedious that would be to deal with.

Continuing on, peering down at someone's intestines strewn across the floor, a dim light flickering on and off overhead, it wouldn't be long now. Blood and water ran together until she came to the corpse of the man those intestines belonged to. Sprawled on his side, ravenously torn apart, two holes, perfectly aligned with one another, were visible on the neck.

A fresh kill.

She was almost upon it.

Turning her palm towards the corpse as she passed, Médée was deep within the tunnel now. The flame she'd following was finally gone, and so as not to be surrounded in the dark another makeshift torch was floating above her palm. A faint, sickening green hue, and though fighting these creatures one handed was no trouble, even she would be a fool if she thought them to be feeble opponents. Inhumanly strong, relentless, if it managed to grab a hold of her it was the end.

So, cautiously maintaining her pace, when she eventually discovered another body, ripped in two, the distance between them was wide.

Bits of organ still hung from the ghoul's mouth. Its back was turned to her, and she waited for its black eyes to stare in her direction, not seeing so much as sensing her—the od flowing through her veins, powerful and ancient—it was more ugly than she guessed: dark, matted hair hung like seaweed from a scabby, burned, all but skinless face. Hunched over, its spine was visible and hands were like white sticks, the flesh almost completely fallen off its body in some places. Its broken and bloody fingers dangled at odd angles. Its clothing, too, was in poor condition. Not to mention, in poor taste. As the light from her torch started searing its exposed skin, it backed away into the dark, hissing and spitting, its mouth a mangle of misshapen, yellowed teeth. Gazing at her from the shadows, it garbled something and spat whatever it had been eating at her feet—a piece of the girl's stomach.

The smell of the mushed, partially-digested remains of a final meal mixing in with a strong aroma of cheap perfume insulting her sinuses, Médée immediately kicked it away and took a step forward as the Apostle took a clumsy one back.

"Do you have a master?" she asked, as the half-eaten organ hit the wall with a wet, meaty impact. She waited again, surging energy through her body and collecting it in her other hand.

Darkness slowly creeping its way back, her makeshift torch flickering out. It said something, only, too deformed for it to have been anything past incoherent babble and the ghoul, unburdened now by the lack of light, sprang forward.

She casually lifted her other hand, now fully charged with magical energy. _Of course, how stupid of her to ask._ She sent it reeling back, clawing and tearing at itself in a vain attempt at putting out the flames that now engulfed its body and watching as it writhed on the body of the dead girl, thought to ask once more—for there was always the chance—but, reconsidered. Whether it had a master or not, was unimportant. If it did, they were long gone by now.

She also burned the body that lay underneath it, wanting to see her grueling duty done quickly, and cast her gaze across the area briefly. Spotting something—a trinket of some sort—she took it, then drowned the place in a magical fire, stepping through unharmed and making her way back to the entrance as her magecraft took care of any evidence.

When she came out, she told the waiting magus to finish with the cleanup and made her way to the taxi she'd hired to take her swiftly to and fro. Getting in, she told the driver to take her to the private airport that the Vice Director had bought out; further solidifying the fact that her mentor had an incurable obsession.

Inspecting the trinket, the taxi starting on its way, while it was yet one more thing to inform her of, unlike Lord El-Melloi II—who made it a habit to track down and hoard strange things in his personal time—nearly everything her mentor did in hers was an excuse to stomp out more Dead Apostles. Thus, she would have no use for it.

So, she thought, then why not just keep it for herself?


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The city alight, a full moon looming above her, after lying in wait the entire day, Lancer finally had the opportunity to let loose. Caster, worn-out and weary from a "surprise" bout with Saber and exposed like a siabhra in the twilight, was several skyscrapers away. Stretching back her forearm, muscles taut to their maximum, she pinpointed the exact moment her aim was to be the truest then, seizing it, hurled her spear swift and powerful. It tore through the sky with a speed so great the wind ignited, turquoise flames licking the air and reaching its mark in the time it took the average person to blink. Expecting it to skewer, Lancer's smirk shrank in disappointment.

She clicked her teeth. Her arm hung at her side, shoulder dislocated.

"Damn. _Missed._ "

She popped it back into place with a grunt, already on the move when she caught her spear as it returned to her and continued after Caster, now a miniscule speck in the distance and nearly impossible for even a Servant of her visual prowess to see anymore. Assuming a low, aggressive stance like she used to charge the lines of Connacht—one reserved for only the most desperate and dire of occasions—her prey was getting away.

Reciting the ancient verses of the now long dead tongue of her ancestors, she rushed forward, decimating everything in a half-mile radius behind her; catapulting herself straight at Caster like a sling to the bullseye. Tackling her mid-air, slamming and grinding her elbow into Caster's throat, there was a crack and snap, a bloody gasp of shock and pain and something... else … as the two of them fell back down to Earth blazing bright.

They crashed far out in the countryside with the impact of a meteorite, laying waste to some unfortunate farmer's crop field in the process.

Rising to her feet as steam billowed from her body, crimson-red curling toward the sky, Lancer placed an armored boot on Caster's broken neck. Shrugging off the pain rippling down her shoulder—the consequence for using the strength of her gods albeit only one-tenth—she prepared a rune that would finish Caster off and pressed down, making sure the damage was done.

If only she hadn't missed.

Watching as shadows enveloped Caster's body, she realized too late that they came not from her rune, but, tails lashing out at a speed incomprehensible from somewhere behind. Speeding out of their path, she cursed her carelessness, clutching a grisly swipe wound to her abdomen. It bubbled and boiled, maimed flesh replaced anew as a blood gurgled chortle came from Caster's crushed throat; the whistling of the devil, a fomóir rising from the Otherworld. She began chanting something in a foreign tongue and the final word was already spoken long before it took her to hold two crooked fingers to the night sky or Lancer to get away.

 _Snap._

And everything, changed.

Lancer suddenly found herself in a pit of many colored snakes, the land around them deformed into a muddy, blood-filled marshland of charred, rotting flesh and bleach-white bone. Slicing apart any that tried to sink their fangs into her, she glared at the tower of jade and pearl which carried Caster high above touching the heavens themselves.

"When I get up there, all your gods combined won't be able to stop me from skinning your hide!" she shouted.

"Oh, will you now?" Caster purred in her sultry voice, appearing at the balcony, whole again. Pushing off the floor with a tail and lounging on its ledge, the fox demon laid a slender hand under her chin. "Then I shall expect a pleasurable spectacle. Do not disappoint me, _girl_."

"Yeah… well…" Lancer started climbing. "What I'm going to enjoy, is pilling your blood and…!" Planting her spear in black soil, she hoisted herself up and out. Prying snakes from her legs, squeezing them to death, she drew her spear-arm back yet again. "I'll send your tower of jewels…" Taking aim, she hurled the mighty weapon. "Crashing down!"

It found its mark this time, searing through the fox demon's shoulder, her spear having taken the whole of it.

Caster held the wound. "That's it, girl." The words rolled off her tongue breathlessly. Cutting the few remaining strings of muscle which were keeping the dangling arm attached, the useless limb disappeared in a wisp shortly thereafter. "More _pain_."

Knocking down the doors to the tower, Lancer came into a grand hall of marble. She sneered at the spiraling staircase of gold and its railing encrusted in pearls.

"Such luxurious trappings, I must be in the hall of a great queen!" she mocked.

Caster's laughter reverberated down. "Indeed! A queen I am, and a queen I was!"

Muddy water flooded in from outside with the shameful remains of Caster's countless victims—unrecognizable, pulverized bones; scorched, torn bits of skin; bashed in, mutilated brains; and vermin-eaten, putrid intestines—and waist-deep in them Lancer waded through the young and old, small and large, child and adult and elderly alike, unfazed. Crunching, mashing, and stomping her way to the staircase, she pulled her arm back for the third time and sent it flying straight through the ceiling.

Caster howled.

Lancer grinned.

The Reality Marble disappeared.

Back in the farmer's crop field, standing over her once again, Lancer sighed as Caster pathetically tried to crawl away with exposed spine, leaving a gruesome trail of blood. Her spear traveling back to her hand, Lancer casually twirled it beneath an armpit and pointed its poisonous tip downward.

The hunt, was over.

All her enthusiasm vanished in that instant.

She struck the final blow.

"And here I thought you'd put up more of fight than—ah?!"

Her eyes widened, seeing what was truly before her for the first time: nothing.

It was an _illusion_.

Before she could react, a mass of scathing fire came down on top of her from the sky, smothering the crop field in a sea of molten bronze.

Protecting herself from the worst of it as its intense heat liquefied everything in the vicinity, Lancer reached a broiling hand for her spear—only to be swept aside like a ragdoll as Caster proceeded to fling her into a nearby village.

Sent colliding into one of the many burning huts, she grit her teeth from scalding three-degrees, unable to move because of the magecraft-infused bronze hardening against her skin, as a triumphant Caster slowly approached.

"How upsetting. You forced my hand. My Master won't be pleased. Though, blessedly, who better to deserve it than you?" Caster's hand caressed her face and then drew back to cup her loosely contained breasts, nipples hard and areola slipping from their low cut folds. "And how blessed am I to receive such from you in kind?" Then, she backed away and in a beautiful display of orange sparkles shaped like lotus petals, her parting words were carried away by the wind as she bid farewell.

"Until the next, girl."

Spitting her disgust, Lancer managed to shed enough of the bronze hindering her movements, she used another rune to create a gate between herself and the golden wasteland flowing her way.

Stumbling through it onto higher ground and falling flat on her face, Lancer rolled over on her backside atop a hill overlooking both the village and the farmer's crop field. Farther away, the city she'd chased Caster to from the mountains illuminated the night, its inhabitants oblivious to the destruction heading their way and lying there just watching it upside down, she debated whether to do something or not.

Spinning to her feet with a twirling of her spear, she leaned against it to stay steady. From the spear's point, a dark green liquid trickled down its barbed tip and rolled further down its riveted shaft over her calloused fingers, eating away at the skin of her hand, whereupon it then dripped to the ground, melting away. Sizzling wisps of poisonous steam wafted back up to her. Regardless, the spearwielder paid it no mind, even as her bone became visible.

Throwing up her hood, she gripped it tighter—the harm done to her fingers simply vanishing with the dark vapors that shed from her body, healed pink and fresh—and started down the hill.

That night, the whole of China, and eventually, hours later, the whole world knew about the landslide that'd almost wiped out an entire city only for its course to have somehow veered away in the end, much to relief of the people living there.

And so ended the second battle of the War.

And its first day.

—§•δ•§—

Wide-awake in her flat overlooking the Clock Tower in London, England, jetlagged from the flight back, those images looping in her head, Médée thought of the serpentine dagger and her mood soured further. Lying beside her bed on the nightstand, unwrapped and out of its golden, leather-bound sheath, its iridescent blade was still ever changing colors; from sickening shades of scrapes, cuts, welts, and bruises to the fields of sunflower, hues of evening sun—these beautiful colors were the only thing left of her Holy Grail War.

She sat up and took it, hair falling in front of her eyes.

A finger tracing its thin surface, it was the only one she hadn't destroyed or handed over to the Faculty of Law to do what they pleased with, an ancient, ceremonial weapon embellished with a single violet jewel on the hilt, once belonging to a witch from the Age of Gods.

She held it to the light.

Thinking of how, even though she'd won and proven her worth, that her mentor had yet to recognize her. How, despite winning, she'd been saved and spared by Saber whom disappeared shortly thereafter. Of what transpired because of her actions, a city on fire, the country an uproar, and being barred from ever entering another.

It'd been several months since then.

Setting the dagger back down on her nightstand, Médée got out of bed, buttoned her shirt, and went into the kitchen. Pouring a glass of water, there was a reflection of her collarbone; deep scars from where Assassin's knives shaved her skin when she'd miscalculated and would've died if Saber hadn't been there to stop that fourth knife.

— _A person like you, who throws lives away like they serve no meaning, has no right to have their wish granted—_

Now scouring her fridge for something to go with it, blending an assortment of leftover fruits and vegetables into a smoothie, she drank them and set the empty glasses in the sink before taking stripping down and entering the shower. Warm water running, she could still hear Saber's words echoing in her head, feel the cold bite of her golden blade upon the nape of her neck. The Servant that got away. Her left hand throbbed.

— _From here on, you will learn humiliation. If, in time, you come to know it as I have, then that is more than anything death could ever grant you—_

Honestly, she could do without anymore Holy Grail Wars.

—§•δ•§—

Arriving by horse-drawn stagecoach at the Archibald mansion in the outskirts of London, Médée peered out its curtained window at the family's crest that hung proudly above the mansion's main gate.

As punishment for leveling an entire city, letting a rogue Servant run loose unabated, and costing both the Magus Association and Holy Church an innumerable amount of joint resources to cover up, ever since, and oh so much to her great joy, she'd been stuck in her new position as an "official liaison" between them and her mentor about the Holy Grail Wars. Specifically, the man who'd inherited one of Clock Tower's most prestigious titles in a Holy Grail War of his own.

Last she heard, he was still tracking down leads and researching the false claims of a supposed "Great Holy Grail War" whether they be right here in London, a channel and several rolling hills away in Ireland, or such volatile places as Africa, the Middle East, and even America to source them. Though many turned out to be squabbles between the local populace where a significant amount of magecraft happened to be involved, or petty pockets of rogue magi, or the whisperings of something long ago left forgotten and of no use in this current, modern age, a few were actual Holy Grail Wars, like the one she'd just returned from.

The one that was supposed to be _it_.

Except it wasn't, and walking up to the mansion, Lord El-Melloi II, hardly the tall, dreary, intimidating figured half the female student body painted his as, was little more than a lanky, slobbering, chip and cigar craving fool. A dreamer severely in need of a haircut. Great Big Ben London Star—as befitting an alternative title as any of the man.

The Barthomeloi had left him far too long to his own devices with that apprentice of his, but to convince her mentor that she still held some value as a proper apprentice herself, she had to keep up these appearances. Had to keep going to these pointless meetings.

Sucking in her disgust and disappointment through her teeth, tapping on the mansion's front doors, at least the situation had improved from the first time around.

They swung wide and Trimmau, the mercury golem that functioned as Reines's maid and bodyguard, beckoned her inside with a curt, if awkwardly mechanical, bow. It'd been practicing...

"Lady Veilleux, the Lord awaits you in his study."

The doors shutting with a gentle, well-oiled creak behind them, Médée ignored the opaque, silver construct's explanations of her master's most recent additions to his master's collection of paintings and other fancy tapestries as they passed them by, following it through the main hall and up the stairs.

Another thing she couldn't stand: Reines's heartwarming favoritism of her.

While not having many face-to-face interactions with each other, Reines always made it a habit to be kind to her. Always having her maid escort her around the mansion when she visited, always telling her such things as "not to put up with the imbeciles who would do her wrong", and silencing any rumors about her person, it'd grown to become an annoyance. She'd already gotten a hold of Flatt for the red-ribboned gift basket full of expensive chocolates that would be waiting in front of her door after today's visit.

Upon reaching the study, Reines was nonchalantly sipping tea.

"It's wonderful to see you again! How are you?" the girl greeted. She set her teacup down on the tabletop beside her chair with a welcoming smile then snapped at Lord El-Melloi II.

At the least two heads shorter than her, behind that gentle, princess allure was very much a lioness and her pride. Having fought without rest to secure her title as head of the Archibald family upon being chosen for the position after the first Lord El-Melloi's untimely departure, Reines was someone who would do anything to keep her standing within Clock Tower. It was partially the reason the current Lord El-Melloi was serving her.

"Fine," Médée answered back.

For that, she admired her ruthlessness more than her kindness, and when Reines turned to the Lord in question, who was already looking drained and defeated, commanding him to pour her a cup with another snap of her fingers, she would admire her and accept her kindness further if she dropped the façade of "the caring auntie"—as Flatt put it—altogether.

"And how was your—"

"Uneventful."

"Oh, I see." Reines frowned.

Lord El-Melloi waved her away. "Yes, yes." He gave the formalities a wave as well. His brow wrinkled. "Right, well..." He sighed, bringing a hand to his face. "So, it—"

Reines took an obnoxiously loud sip of her tea, seated in her chair again.

"... To start—"

 _Slurp._

Lord El-Melloi glanced in her direction with a pained smiled.

"Did you find any leads?"

"No."

His gaze traveled to the shelves of books behind him briefly. He rubbed his chin. "Hm. I see… How disappointing…" he said, reaching into his coat pocket. His fumbled around, face darkening when something that should've been there, wasn't. "... Fuck! Where…?" Pacing back and forth between Reines, the shelf, and his desk, after a few minutes, he picked up a cigar from the floor near Reines's foot. "There it is…" He shot her a nasty look.

She didn't seem to notice. "Nobody wants to hear about another celebration in America which turned out to be just some little girl's private costume party. Or those kids in Africa who saw one too many Monty Python skits. Get on with the one you neglected to tell her because you were being overly critical of the costumes at the party. Rambling on and on..."

Lord El-Melloi took a seat at his desk. "Yes, well, I wanted to make sure of that one before sharing it, and after some more looking into it, I can say this one might be worth our attention." He leaned back in his chair, linking his hands together, cigar between his teeth. "The MENA branch of the Association is up to something. The Director of the Academy has reported strange rituals being performed around the ruins of Babylon that were similar in nature to those in Fuyuki rituals 70 years prior. Of course, you already knew this part."

"Oh, get on—!"

"Let's skip to the end, then." He cleared his throat. "Gray went to investigate shortly after you left. She's already on her way back, but, in her search found a water source running underneath what remains of the city. Multiple, in fact. Moreover, she discovered what appears to be an entrance in the heart of the ruins, but that's not what's significant about this one." Snuffing out his cigar, he snorted. "What is, is that Gray discovered signs of incantation circles, like those used to summon Servants. Though, whether or not they were successful is anybody's guess."

"Like the catacombs."

"Yes."

While she hadn't bothered to read the findings in full, something to do with an armored shadow entity which was reminiscent of the ghost-liners in these Holy Grail Wars, the Servants, and that its name was supposedly Kay.

"And Hephaestion."

Lord El-Melloi gripped the armrest of his chair, knuckles white. "Yes." He slowly relaxed. "Also, while you were away, another has already began in a small mountain village in China. It wasn't one of those I'd been following any leads on. A representative was sent over, but, we lost contact with them recently..." he trailed off.

"You're still upset about not being able to go instead? Honestly." Reines closed her eyes and scowled as she took a third sip. Dozens of empty boxes in a corner of the chambers read Yerba Mate. "Quit being a baby about it."

"At least I have an interest in something besides sucking up to the Vice Director through her apprentice and drowning myself in tea all day," he countered with an exasperated sigh.

Médée broke the accompanying tension between the two. "Is that everything?"

He broke eye contact with Reines and nodded.

"Then I'll make sure the Vice Director hears of this," she concluded.

Then she left the Lord's study, hearing shouting and something as it shattered as soon as the door closed.

Trimmau escorted her out.

And getting back into the stagecoach for the ride back, regarding these strange rituals, last she heard, their new Director was working diligently to organize the branch into something of a higher discipline, but clearly Atlas was still lax and its members even moreso. It came as no surprise something like that would've slipped under their noises. Of those Dead Apostles that they knew by name, Sumire was only one of her kin to overcome the traditional weakness of water, able to submerse herself without consequence. The ruins of Babylon had no running sources of water, having all dried up an Age ago. Seeing as how Sumire could also manifest water and live in it, it wouldn't be far-fetched to say she might be hiding there, as well. If anything, she knew her mentor would be elated at this news… in addition to what she'd found in Japan.

… Or, rather, _who_.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"It was discovered in the woods near Farnham, of all places. This whole time and I hadn't sensed it, but _they_ had!?"

When she'd made her way to her mentor's study, Médée found the Vice Director not there. Instead, having to follow the breadcrumbs, she found her in Surrey, snarling at the leader of a group of Executors when she arrived. Pointing her gauntleted hand in his face, demanding an explanation, he explained that an unnaturally high concentration of unholy entities—ghouls, undead, spirits of the damned, the markings of an Apostle—was reported by the local priest. By the time her mentor caught whiff, the situation was already dealt with. Not their doing, but, the local priest's, who stood off to the side hands behind his back observing his own handiwork with seemingly stoic disinterest. Skimming over the pile of stinking, maggot-ridden corpses herself, bloody puncture wounds and cross-shaped seared flesh, clearly the man was once an Executor himself.

…. Though as if her mentor gave a damn.

Being shown a map of the surrounding countryside, the Vice Director quickly went over it. The Dead Apostle was still in the area, certainty. Hellbent and fury-fueled, certain. Biting her thumb after, she motioned her over.

Her mentor, usually straight faced and unflinching in everything she did, was dripping blood. Trickles ran over her hand, down her chin. There were drops on the ground.

"... Vice Director?"

Her mentor wiped the blood from her chin and looked over at her with a solemn expression. "Well?"

She recalled all she'd taken from those images: a skull face and demonic arm, the flash of crimson light cleaving dark shadows, breaking of the embryo—the incomplete Grail—the explosion and death of most involved; that man, blasting a girl dressed in blue and silver with frills, running away and dying just the same; the girl's broken body, her insufferable, childish laughter, mocking the knight as she took her last breaths; said knight, unamused, seething, dealing the death blow; those last words, blade stained with blood and black mud.

— … _You can't be him. You never will be. You're just a...—_

—… _Father… What was I...—_

None of these details—the Masters, the Servants, a Grail or no Grail, their victories and defeats, the who, the why—mattered, except the very last, shortly before they'd arrived yet whose trail had immediately gone cold again: the witch in white, strolling through the grimsly aftermath with her umbrella, humming an old, somber tune…

" _Francesca_. How many times do I have to…?" She went quiet, grumbling to herself. "And what did Lord El-Melloi II have to say?" she said after her anger subsided, lifting a hand for her to continue.

Médée paraphrased. The rituals in Babylon, the Subspecies Grail War in China, their missing representative, Sumire...

When she finished, the Vice Director crossed her arms. "Yes... But, given the… ambiguity… I want to be prepared for it. There's no telling what might happen… I'll arrange a team to investigate further. Once I have their names I want you to get in contact with them. You'll see them off."

"Yes, Vice…" She went to bow, then paused. _Wait._ If she wasn't going with them, then—?

Upon seeing her face, her mentor's expression darkened. "The last time I let you go off on your own, you ruined the reputation of three of Clock Tower's most prestigious bloodlines. I still have to go through the trouble of replacing them. I'm sending you to China with Gray." She held up two fingers. "There are two reasons, and I want you to handle them _properly_ this time."

—§•δ•§—

"Here you go!"

A grand total of one book was dropped before her. Its cover was in poor condition, smelling of old parchment and soiled undergarments, scraped and torn. From what she could make out of the title on the binding, it was something having to do with the Holy Wars. Flatt sat down with an exaggerated huff, shaking dust from his hair. Putting his head down on the table, his eyes focused on the stack she'd collected, all relating to the history of the last 70 years regarding the Holy _Grail_ Wars.

Her brow twitched. How could such a genius mind be in the body of such a fool? She opened the first page of the book. It practically crumbled between her fingertips. Turning through it carefully, from what she could make out, it was something having to do with two kings and a beast in the desert. A story, a fiction, a myth. A scary bedtime story to tell the children at night. In other words, worthless. _Trash._ She tossed it.

"Ah! Hey! I wanted to read that when you were done!" Flatt sprang up, chasing after it.

It was two days since she returned Japan and the finalized list of names of those the Vice Director chose was given to her earlier. First on it was Bram Nuada-Re Sophia-Ri, an utterly spoiled pompous ass even by her standards. That sister of his had been not better. Second, was Professor Lian Chao, one of the few magi of Asian descent present, with presence, in Clock Tower. Though his knowledge of curses and other such macabre subjects was profound , his talents were best suited behind a podium. She couldn't see him surviving the heat. Then, there was that Enforcer, Neil Ancrum. She barely knew anything about the man—or any of those special class rejects, even—save that his record for eliminations is far greater than his number of captures putting forefront along with herself. Last, there was that member of the Church, Kirei Kotomine. She didn't recognize the name, but, the Vice Director requested it personally and approved him.

She took a book from the stack, opened it, and started reading.

From what Lord El-Melloi II shared, the Third Grail War ended with it being stolen by the Yggdmillennia family, an annoying bloodline which welcomed lesser magi families into its ranks. They were like cockroaches; everywhere you went. She'd even encountered one in her Holy Grail War, and guessed that ghoul in Tokyo—the same who killed a little girl and fled the scene shrieking like one himself—had been a part of them, too. Her reasoning? No respectable magus would be so cowardly.

Anyway, there'd been two Grails: the Greater and the Lesser. The one stolen was the Greater one, "The Great Grail", he called it. The Lesser Grail, on the other hand, was destroyed by one of the participants. And of those participants, three survived to see the end. On the last day, Wilhelm Hausler and his Servant, a Rider class, encountered Lancer, mysteriously without its Master. Though they managed to defeat it and destroy the Lesser Grail, it'd all been a distraction for Darnic to get away with the Greater one. The actual Grail. Then, he vanished, and none of these books had any information as to where. The only big clue the magus was still alive were these smaller Holy Grail Wars. "Subspecies Holy Grail Wars", they'd been officially dubbed.

The original system for the Holy Grail Wars was the collaborative effort between three families: the Einzberns, who created the vessel to hold it; the Tohsakas, responsible for the gathering of the Heroic Spirits, the "Servants"; and finally the Makiris, who provided the Command Spells which allowed the Masters to control the Servants. A total of seven Masters were allowed to participate at any given time, each allowed one Servant for a grand total of fourteen participants. There were seven classes a Servant could be assigned based upon their strengths: Saber, Lancer, Archer, Rider, Caster, Assassin, and Berserker. Also, the number of Servant per class was limited to one.

In these flawed copycats, this new system, there could be multiple Servants per class. Meaning, she could have summoned two Caster class Servants if she cheated the system. Only, instead of seven, though all seven were possible, five was maximum. Her War had five participants. Lord El-Melloi II's had two. The one she'd wasted time investigating… at least three.

Of the seven, Saber was viewed as the strongest overall. One of the three knight classes, the other two being Lancer and Archer, they were usually Heroic Spirits who in life and legend were regarded as exceptional melee combatants, commonly with the sword. She'd lost and been humiliated by the Saber summoned during her own War, but, the Holy Grail War in China, Francesca and rumor of a rogue Enforcer with two others in tow… If there was one in this latest War, then...

 _—You foolish girl. Once, I desired revenge, too. Do you really think your wish will come true?—_

If there was one thing her Servant—and her Servant's previous Master—had been good for, it was these conceptual tools sometimes left behind by the more powerful ones. Last time, she'd been foolish, but, now, she was prepared.

She had to succeed, no matter the cost or burden to bear, personal misgivings aside, this time was her chance to really prove it, and, when the day came...

—Something tells me to be wary of you in the distant future, and should it come to a duel between you and I, know that you are to hold nothing back. As I will unleash everything at you, in turn. Now, go, and take care of this before it grows ever more a nuisance—

She would have a place in the family. She would seize power.

—§•δ•§—

That night, her belongings packed, only the necessities, she looked over at her nightstand. Putting the witch's dagger in with the rest of her things, trinket included, Médée was about to make her way out the door and to her flight to the next place her mentor bade where she suspected there would be just more questions than answers instead of what she needed, when there was a knock on her door.

She stopped. Stood. Listened. Waited.

At this hour Lord El-Melloi II would be relaxing in his flat playing with himself and belching, fingers rapidly tapping away on some hand-held device in his hands glued to a television screen as she been forced to sit and watch like their first meeting. The start of it all, where she'd been sent on a hunt to Vietnam for sightings of a strange, mysterious spawn of undead creation that was simply just a coven of lesser spirits and the only thing they recovered was some ancient, unresponsive tablet but enough to convince her mentor that he had some value. If word already reached his ears, the one at the door was his apprentice.

Letting out a groan, she opened the door, but, instead of Gray, she was greeted by Flatt who smiled brightly.

"Take me with you and Gray! I already have my stuff ready!" He turned around, showing off his knapsack. "And my ticket!"

Her brow furrowed. How did he even…? _Nevermind._ She grabbed her own stuff and shut her door. Fine, whatever, this changed nothing. Walking down the street, it would take around thirty minutes for them to reach the airport, and she hoped listening to his mouth running a mile a minute was the only headache she'd have to deal with.

"... Do you even know where I'm going, Flatt?" she asked as they came to a crosswalk. The light was red. She hated London traffic.

"Nope, but Big Ben told me I could if I left him alone!"

"Right.." Wonderful.

Well, one more person wouldn't stop her. As long as neither of them got in her way, and knowing Gray, the girl should be waiting at the airport, awkwardly standing there since she returned to London, another assignment already in her, no, _both_ , their laps, and sure enough, there she stood… along with the team her mentor put together, including Reines, Bram, and a school of Bram's admirers.

Next time she was going to choose her words more carefully.

—§•δ•§—

Lancer plopped down beside the box her Master lived in. Battling Caster really wasn't something she was looking forward to doing again, which was a first.

At least not without help.

Taking a drink of bottled water she'd swiped from some hapless man on the street and pouring the rest over her head to cool down, she slicked her hair back. Her body felt like it were still on fire, particularly nasty burn marks visible when they should've completely healed hours before. To think, getting burned alive was the only way for her to get any tanner. She would've laughed, if not for fear of waking her Master sleeping soundly.

Instead, she stretched and decided to check the bounded field around the perimeter starting at the alley entrance. It hurt to get back up, so sore with each step she took; she now knew what Conganchnes felt. His head over the cauldron, screaming—no true warrior, Munster, Connacht, or beloved Ulster, deserved to die in such a way.

"Ah, well," she said to herself, re-writing a rune that'd gotten smeared.

It meant she couldn't move around as much as she liked, but, there was nothing to worry about as long as she avoided the other Servants until she was fully healed. She only hoped she'd be ready to go when that time came. Yes, it was just a matter of time before Caster did something everyone—and not just those participating in this Holy Grail War, but, literally, _everyone_ —would pay the price for.


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Gray took extra care where her fingers were positioned, repeating the proper etiquette in her head for the umpteenth time. Her palms went along the handles, extending out to their respective thumb and forefinger. With the fork, she was to keep the forefinger straight and check that the pointed end faced downward. For the knife it was the same, only flipped at an angle. From there, she poised them over the meal on her plate: a fancy miniature steak with some type of white dressing and leaf on top.

She peered over at Médée, who hadn't even picked up her utensils yet. Stabbing her knife into the steak, Gray couldn't see past that frigid expression of hers, and also couldn't just lift the steak to her mouth. No, she had to hold down the piece she wanted and cut in a sawing motion with as little motion as possible then… she would slowly part the piece from the rest of the steak. And, with care, bring it to her mouth. Only a few chews, then swallow. Chew, swallow. One, two, three. One, two. One... two…

"... and what of the Lord El-Melloi's young apprentice? Hm?"

Looking up mid-chew, Gray went around the table until they settled on the handsome, auburn-haired man whose appearance reminded her of a lizard with a glint in its eye; Bram Nuada-Re Sophia-Ri, the younger brother of the Kayneth Archibald, former holder of the title "Lord El-Melloi" that her master was now the new one of.

"How badly did he outshow Kayneth to leave him like that?"

Gray's face went whiter than her hair. She hadn't been following the conversation, and cast a frightful glance in Reines's direction.

She caught it. "I believe we're done here," Reines said. Taking her own fork and knife, she then mercilessly cut into her own steak, stopping only when she started scratching the plate underneath. She shoved it into her mouth, chewed vigorously, swallowed hard. Slapping her hands on the table, she pushed out her chair. "Thank you for paying for our portions, Bram. Come along, Gray. Médée."

Exaggerating her actions and calling over the proprietor, telling him they would find dinner elsewhere, Reines gathered her coat and waited for them to both get up. Then, she stormed out of the establishment with a chip on her shoulder, ignoring the horrified looks of Bram and his associates.

"And you too, Flatt," she said almost as an afterthought, not stopping for the boy ogling the restaurant from the window outside.

Reines drew her coat around her shoulders and sighed loudly, lifting her arms as she looked up to a street lamp. Passerby's on the sidewalk gave her funny looks, but she just ignored them, too. She began to walk in a random direction, hands in her coat pockets, head down to keep from catching the wind in her face in silence. After a few minutes, she stopped in front of a window with equally as extravagant dresses as the one she wore underneath her coat. Shaking her head, she continued on, turning around a bend and waiting at the crosswalk that followed. Multitudes of fancy cars whizzed by, and she stuck her tongue out at them until the way was clear. Once across, they continued on for a time before swinging around another corner. Before long, they were in the less wealthy parts of the city.

"I know this little diner where they serve large portions. It's close to the Clock Tower, so we can make it back before curfew," she joked.

Glancing as Reines led them onward again, Médée and Flatt gave them the slip some ways back. If she noticed, Reines didn't let it show.

And, following her inside the little diner she spoke of, Gray could feel how welcoming the place was from the atmosphere alone. Yellow sunshine seeped from the walls, happier times floating in the air. With every clank of a bottle and holler of laughter, this little diner in the blandest section of the area was livelier than most of the magi she'd met in her brief admittance into the Clock Tower.

Grabbing a booth for two, Reines sat down across from her, same as before, giving her a playful wink as a waiter asked for their drinks. "I'll have a fizzy." She flipped a hand in her direction. "And she would like the same."

Scribbling on his little notepad, the waiter told them he'd be right back. After a few minutes, he had their drinks and was all ready to take their orders.

Reines didn't bother to open her menu. "I'll have a beef burger." She tapped hers. "Have whatever you like."

Gray shuffled through it. "The, uh… bacon butty."

As the waiter again went to get their orders, she caught Reines's eye. Her master's younger sister-in-law was now quietly watching her, as if waiting for her to say something and start a conversation. Then she quickly took charge and launched into what Gray assumed was the topic she'd been too preoccupied to follow earlier. Reines complained about her dislike of Bram and his family and how she couldn't deal with any of them after the state the first Lord El-Melloi returned in.

"... Especially his fiancée, good riddance. Though I always knew he wouldn't win," she said when their food arrived, squeezing a large amount of ketchup on her burger. Lifting it two handed, she took one, giant bite. Sandwiched between her small, pale white fingers, it was wider than her entire head.

Gray could only see her flower-tasseled blue cap. "He wouldn't have?"

The cap bopped up and down. "Right. He was too smug, too reliant on his supposed genius, but, at least he escaped with his life…"

Recalling the story of how her master gained the title of Lord El-Melloi II, numerous times she'd noticed him pulling out a dusty, old cloth from his desk when he thought she wasn't looking and stroke it. If the story were entirely true—and she had no reason to doubt otherwise—it'd been the catalyst he used to win. Thinking of how the experience must've affected him, Gray frowned.

"Aren't you going to eat your burger?" Reines wiped her mouth with a napkin. Her icy light blue eyes narrowed. "... Are you upset about Médée?" She didn't nod, but, Reines continued anyway. "That girl… is very… unique… Other than being apprentice to the Barthomeloi Lorelei, her whole reason for entering one of these… frivolous rituals, wasn't to win. Well, not really."

Gray perked up. Médée'd won hers too, and not only one, but, beaten everyone else so sorely they ended up abandoned being magi and passing their Magic Crests down to their successors. The rumor was that she even canceled her contract with her Servant to fight by herself. If her intention wasn't to win…

"Then what was it?"

"To defeat a Servant. Singlehanded." Reines waved a fry at her. "No magus can defeat a Servant. Even someone like Médée. Even her master. Not to say it's impossible, though..." She sniffed. Her nose wrinkled like she were about to sneeze. "Ugh. Too much pepper."

"And that's why…?"

"Nobody ever told you? Or no… perhaps it's not best for me to discuss it right now. You have a plane to catch. Come on!" Putting another fry into her mouth, Reines got up. "Don't fret. Something like _that_ isn't going to stop her."

Gray tilt her head. Something like… _what_?

—§•δ•§—

Overlooking the marketplace of the city she'd saved, spear resting against her shoulder, bored out of her mind, Lancer yawned.

She was waiting for Saber to appear again, having decided to use her brain instead of her brawn this time around and ask her fellow Servant about forming a truce to go against Caster first before beating on each other. If the previous day was any indication, Saber knew just how crazy Caster was from the get-go, which meant they'd had a past together. Which meant she could know some way to take her down, and, eying the crowd, the various vendors selling their merchandise and wares, and whenever someone entered or exited that butchershop in the corner—she was hoping someone would come out with a prime piece, preferably rabbit even though her Master requested lamb, the greedy fucking bastard—she'd first spotted Saber by pure luck, feeding some goats. Thankfully she'd keen eyesight, otherwise she might've mistaken her for just another shepard walking around the city, except, try as she might to conceal herself, blend in, those hips couldn't lie.

While Saber's frame was thin as a willow, her thighs were woven as intricately as a wickerman. Only a seasoned warrior could have leg muscles as taut as that, and, resting her head on her elbow, a part of her shamelessly wished it was Saber's firm, tight ass.

Honestly, she blamed her teacher for that way of thinking, but, tight ass or not, Lancer had already been watching over the marketplace for an hour or two, maybe three, and if she didn't spot Saber again within another hour or so, or nobody who left the butchershop caught her attention with what they carried out, then she'd look around for some decent, juicy scraps and leftovers for her Master before moving on to find Archer or possibly even Rider or Berserker... Assassin… Whichever other Servants were out there if there were those willing to help defeat Caster before she became a real problem. After all, greedy fucking bastard or not, the bone she left him wouldn't occupy him the whole day. Also her conscience wouldn't allow it if he starved and, if he were here, Dóelchú certainly wouldn't have allowed it even for the sake of the World not ending because her Master deserved only the best.

… If only he were here with her now, he'd been able to sniff her out in no time. Oh Dóelchú. Go ndéana Dia grásta ar a anam dílis. Mo chara, O so faithful friend. She wiped the tear from her eye, buried the shame, the guilt and regrets, the many deaths, her daughter and beloved Ulster too, and kept her head high, lest she fail and fall again.

—§•δ•§—

"We'll be touching down in about five hours," the pilot called from the overhead speakers from the control room. "But if this storm up ahead gets any worse, we'll have to turn around, land, then wait it out. Don't worry, it's sure to pass."

Gazing out one of the plane's numerous small, circular windows, Médée observed the storm in question as it rolled over some mountains in the distance, wild, untouched, and thick with fog. An outpouring of light was visible within, a city once ignored now the center of collective interests within the magi world. Whether it was a sure to pass or not, one thing was already already certain: it wasn't natural.

It wasn't of this era. Something older, darker. Whoever had woven it was no ordinary modern magus, or even a modern magus at all. A Servant. An enchantress from the Age of Gods, maybe even older, and turning her attention away from the window, remembering Caster, their incompatibility, their falling out, the betrayal and death and dashed dreams, she and her own disappointed thoughts, Médée closed her eyes, chin tilted toward the ceiling.

… Gray had been staring at her since they boarded.

She let out a silent exasperation of irritation. "Something you want to say?" She re-opened her eyes, turning her head slightly.

Gray averted her own eyes, ghost-white hair covering them, the girl began to shake her head, then looked up. Their eyes—Médée's narrowed lightning blue, to Gray's wide silver-sea—met. A clash of extraordinary elements, the two polar hierarchies, Grand against Frame.

She wanted to ask something personal, something important, significant, to either she or her—it was written all over her delicate, doll-like face—but, seemed to reconsidered with a biting of the lip.

"I have one." Svin, another student of Lord El-Melloi II's and whom Flatt managed to smuggle onto the plane somehow—the pilot must've turned a blind-eye to, in service to her mentor for many years and firm believer in guiding fate—called over from the back row, on the other side of his energetic friend.

"Are there anymore peanuts?" Flatt burst out.

Médée turned back around and sulked deeper into her seat cushions. _Morons_. Seven hours had passed since they left the airport, Clock Tower, the limitations and watchful eyes of her mentor, but, she knew in some way this, too, was a punishment.

"... All out? Aw."

"Because you ate them all."

"Say, kid, looks like you got your hands full," the caged mask referred to as Add, quipped. Gray had it strapped into the seat next to her. Her animated, obnoxious, talking scythe sealed mystery, double functioning as her weapon on assignments, and just one more moron added to the list. If Mystic Codes could even be classified such. "But, hey, this girl here is—"

"Leave the wisecracks to yourself," she interrupted.

"Woah. What crawled up your butt and died?"

She gave it a dark look. A rancor dislike that screamed "I'm going to enjoy tossing you out the emergency exit".

Add's trap shut tight and its cage shrunk behind Gray's thigh out of sight. Gray cracked a nervous smile, both thankful and frightened.

With that, Médée focused her attention back to the window and the storm as she should've kept doing to begin with and thinking of what to do once they reached the site of this latest War, first she'd confer with Lord El-Melloi II about the spot it was most likely to be. Its presence and perhaps even the magus—or whatever entity was behind this magic-infused storm—himself. Then, a plan to dismantle it that hopefully wouldn't involve either Svin or Flatt in any important capacity. Something they agreed on, and, for that, she was silently grateful. She'd been wrong. One more person was enough to stop her because, between Flatt scarfing down peanuts by the bagful while Svin kept asking pestering her for details that he hadn't already figured out himself, it was guaranteed the two of them were bound to at some point. And by that, she meant there would be two dead Modern Magecraft students she'd have to explain about. As for Gray… Gray was… well, _gray_.

"... Your Holy Grail War." Gray finally spoke what was on the tip of her tongue, at the front of her mind, had been swirling back and forth in Médée's own, since. Assassin's knives, Saber's golden blade coming down, that hellish black hole, terror in the heavens, devouring the sky. "What happened?"

—§•δ•§—

"130元."

"Uh…" Lancer fished in her pockets and threw all the money she had on the counter. There was more lint than coin. "... _Shit._ "

The butcher looked disgusted. "No money? No buy."

She held up her hands. "W-wait a sec! I, uh… um…" She reached behind her and swiped whatever the person in line behind her had on them—without them noticing, naturally. "Here!"

He counted it, then shook his head. "100 short." He handed it back and was already motioning the next person forward before Lancer even had a chance to move.

Ignored. " _Tch._ " She put the money back in their hands, stepping out the butchershop and leaving them wondering why she'd just given them free money.

Slumping outside against a wall, if she'd known the prices were this much, she might've used the past several hours lifting more instead, but, tough luck now. Drawing in the dirt with her finger like a child would, he'd just have to settle for scraps. She chuckled softly to herself, a disappointment yet again, until a large piece of lamb meat was thrown on her lap.

It was so heavy she let out an _oof_ and looked up in amazement, wondering who'd be so kind as to, and in the time it took her realize the sharp object coming dangerously close to impaling her in the throat, its wielder was already changing its direction to skewer her eye. It stopped right before and Lancer, pupil wide then thin, looked past it at an unamused, stoic-faced Saber.

"Why are you following me, Lancer?"

The question was presented softly, in peaceful, flat, and even tone, and though Lancer knew it'd be within her best interest if she didn't lose an eye, personally, still, true to her nature, she leaned back to get a better look at the hero of the sword and snickered.

"Hello to you, too," she said with a grin and without a hint of fear. "Thanks for the lamb." Just like before, she couldn't sense Saber's presence as a Servant at all. She scooted over to make room and offered her fellow Servant a seat. "Why don't we sit and talk awhile?"


End file.
